


Locktease

by merelypassingtime



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 80s Hairstyles, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blackmail, Crack, Humor, John learns a plot-convenient skill for therapy, Locksmithing AU, M/M, Teasing dig at baking aus, Tumblr made me do it, justregular!Sherlock, locklock, locksmith!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: "On a ranked list of the most stupid things John Watson had done in his life, kissing a complete and deceitful stranger during an accidental burglary would not make the top ten, more's the pity."John is a locksmith and Sherlock maybe up to no good.





	

Honestly, John had been surprised to be offered the job at Sure-Lock given his lack of experience and training in locksmithing. It was something he had taken up learning at his therapist's suggestion after being invalided home from Afghanistan. She had said it would help to give him a focus and improve the dexterity in his hand. At least made more sense then her other suggestion of taking up baking. Ridiculous. 

Only a desperate need to have done something constructive one day had made him apply for the position and it had been sheer bloody mindedness that carried him to the interview. It had not gone as expected from the very start. Mrs Hudson, the shop's owner had greeted him with tea and biscuits, assuring him, “It will be just this once, dear. I'll be your boss not the other way around.” The next half hour had been filled with John explaining why he was a poor candidate, with his ignorance and the cane he still needed to walk, and Mrs Hudson politely refusing to take no as an answer. He had started that night.

John had been sure he would hate working the night shift. The memories he had from his residency were full of drunken mayhem and grievous bodily harm filling the nights. It had been chaotic and stressful and he had loved it. Nights at the locksmithing company were anything but thrilling. Sure there was still a little drunken mayhem but most of it was easily resolved by slipping the 'lost' keys in the drunk's pocket and bundling them into a cab. The rest of his calls tended to be malfunctioning security systems with just an occasional residential lockout for variety.

Most of the night he spent in the firm's tiny shop. For the first couple of months he had spend his time conscientiously sitting behind the front counter next to the key grinder waiting for customers and reading guides and system manuals to hone his job skills. He was determined not to let Mrs Hudson down with his ignorance. After awhile, as he had settled in he began to spend more and more time in the back room of the shop where the walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves crowded with the detritus of seventy-five years of business. Abandoned safe doors gathered dust, just waiting to be cracked, and locks so old they looked like they belonged on pirate chests weighed down old ledgers full of spidery writing and the hint that the business had not always been strictly legal.

Now, almost a year into his employment he barely stopped in the front room, taking just enough time to say goodnight to Mrs Hudson and check the night's work rooster for any jobs before he limped into the back. There he worked on picking the old locks and doorhandles and read through the fascinating work records of the late Mr Hudson. Mrs Hudson never talked about how her husband had died, but John was sure it was both not peaceful and a great story.

It was a particularly cold night in late January and experience told John that it would likely be a quiet shift for him. People tended to stay inside out of the weather and therefore had no need for him to come let them back in from it. So he was well settled into picking his way through a stack of safe deposit doors from Lloyds Bank he had found in an old egg crate when the phone rang. He grumbled, annoyed at the interruption but answered it dutifully, “Sure-Lock 24-hour Locksmith services, how many I help you?”

There was a pause before an almost sinfully smooth baritone replied, “What? Not an automated message? How antiquated of you.” Before John could object to the slur the man continued dismissively, “It is not important, I guess. I find myself unable to get into a house on Regent's Park. Would you be capable of helping me?”

“Yes, sir. We would could help you there.” John was aware his tone was more than a little sharp but, really, the arrogance of the man. Just a handful of sentences and John was already tempted to punch him however wonderfully sexy his voice was. Or perhaps in part because of how sexy his voice was. Luckily John didn't have time to follow that thought any further as the man spoke again.

“Are you sure? The house does have a security system that would need disarmed. Can your technician handle it?”

“Yes, sir. I am completely sure I can handle it. If you will give me the type and model of the system and the address I will be right out to assist you.”

The man sounded dubious, but provided the information, finishing grandly with, “Good, I will see you here in twenty minutes.” 

“That would be a good trick if you can manage it, sir, as I will be there in thirty.” John bit back, and didn't quite slam the phone down.

He heaved a sigh, grabbed his cane, and headed for the to the back room to gather his tools back into their box. He had a feeling that this evening was really going to test his blood pressure. 

 

Twenty-seven minutes later John pulled up to the address ha had been given. And if he had stopped for five minutes a block away in order to arrive closer to the half-hour mark, well, life was all about the small victories.

The house was exactly what he had assumed it would be given the posh voiced git on the phone. It was an austere, imposing terrace house, all light blue stucco and dark brick with a neatly manicured little lawn out front. 'Rich people,' he thought and couldn't help but shake his head a little ruefully as he opened the back of his van, leaning his cane against the side and began digging through his toolbox.

At first he didn't see anyone waiting to meet him and for a second he wonder if the whole call had been a prank, but then the orange glow from the tip of a cigarette drew his eye toward the nearby streetlight. The figure smoking beneath it was just as imposing as the house itself. He was tall and lean, clad in a long overcoat that had likely cost more than his work van. Unbelievably the harsh fluorescent light did nothing to diminish the man's sharp edged beauty, throwing his cheekbones into high relief, lighting his already luminous porcelain skin, and making his mass of unruly curls shine like a splash of India ink on a fresh white page. John shook himself and silently swore that he was going to stop reading the trashy romance novels Mrs Hudson left around the shop. He also reminded himself that unnaturally attractive as the man might be he was still a pompous arse. 

The man greatly helped this conviction when the first words out of his mouth were, “You are eight minutes late. How much of that did you spend circling the block just to spite me?”

“Don't know what you mean, sir.” John said as mildly as he could manage.

“Oh, I think we can dispense with the 'sir.' I am not sure my soul can survive the sarcasm with which you say it much longer.”

“As you say, Mr...” John trailed off, realizing that in his earlier pique he had failed to collect any information from this client before coming out on the call.

The man smirked as if he could read John's thoughts and filled in the blank, “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Really? Sherlock?”

“It is not a very common name, my parents were traditionalists”

“No, it is not that. It is just Sherlock, you know like Sure-Lock.” he made sure to leave a noticeable pause in between the two words of his company's name. The man just gave him a bored look so John pressed on, “Okay, Mr Holmes, what can I assist you with tonight?”

Holmes rolled his eyes, “Sherlock, please. As I already explained I require your aid in entering this house and then disabling the security alarm, as soon as you can manage it. It is quite cold and I would like to get inside.”

John retrieved his clipboard from where it hung inside the van door, “Right, I'll just need to to fill out this form and I'll get a copy or your ID-”

“Yes, yes fine. We can do all that when we get inside the house. Do to your inexcusable tardiness I am freezing!”

“I am sorry sir,” John made sure to imbue the sir with extra sarcasm, he knew he was losing his tempter but he couldn't find it in himself to care. “We are going to do the bloody forms now or you are not getting into that house!”

“Well, John,” the utter prick said, poking a finger to where John's name was embroidered above his jumpsuit breast pocket. “I didn't want to have to say it, but I am not going to fill out any of your forms until I am sure you can actually do the job I would be paying you for! The security system is very new and very expensive and I highly doubt that a man who has been in the business for, what? Less than a year? Is going to be able to disable it. After all it is not like there are a lot of residential security system in an active war zone for you to practice on before that, were there? Before they sent you home with your psychosomatic limp that is. Tell me John, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John grabbed the wrist of hand poking him and glared up into the taller man's face. Surprise and something else unfathomable flickered in those eyes as John growled, “It was Afghanistan.” 

He was furious. Because, yeah it was true he hadn't been in his job long, and yeah, he hadn't seen a single private security system during his tours, but that did not mean that this poncy fucking arsehole got to belittle his service to his country. That was just not on. He squeezed the wrist he still held once probably harder than he should have before shoving it away. Then he turned on his heels and marched up the steps to the door of the building.

He realized that he had forgotten to bring his toolbox with him but was saved from a humiliating retreat back for it by the set of lock picks he kept in his overalls. He took them out and set to work. The door handle took him less than a moment to pick, but the deadbolt was surprisingly tricky and he was given a reason to be glad for all the extra hours he had spent picking his way through the shop's backroom. In just under three minutes the deadbolt was undone too. He selected a long flexible wire with a hook at one end from the set and snaked it into the gap between the door and the frame, adroitly using the hooked end to disengaged the security chain. 

Time was ticking down now he knew, the security system would begin to sound two minutes after the door opened and he had already spent a minute of that on the security chain. He quickly stepped into the foyer, barely noting in passing that it was every bit as ostentatious expected as he scanned the walls for the electronic keypad he knew would be there. Spotting it on the wall just to the right of the door and opposite the grand marble staircase, he stepped towards it pulling the large combat knife out of the sheath he had strapped to his leg. He used the knife to roughly pry the box off the wall, and if the wall was a bit damaged in the process that was not his problem. After all, Mr Holmes was cold and inconvenienced so John was obligated to do this as quickly as possible for him.

When the unit popped off it did take a fair amount of plaster with it which John ignored in favor of getting to the wires now dangling from the back. He picked out the grey and white wires from the mess and used the knife to strip the insulation from them. He then took a nine-volt battery out of his breast pocket and used it to bridge the two wires, shorting the system.

It was the crude and inelegant way to shut down the alarm and it meant that the whole unit would have to be replaced at great cost but, John thought again, life was all about the little victories. He turned back towards Mr Holmes, anticipating the look of outrage and/or horror on his face. Instead he was looking on with what could only be described as boyish delight and something dangerous moved in John's chest at the sight.

“Perfect!” Sherlock whispered. “I knew you could do it, but I didn't realize you would cause damage while you did. Brilliant!” And with that the odd man actually threw his arms in the air and jumped a bit off the ground.

John's anger had now fled completely and for a moment he just stood there staring at the jubilant display and felt wrong-footed and undeniably transfixed by the mercurial man.

When he seemed to be over his little paroxysm of joy, Sherlock stepped towards him. Leaning in close. Still whispering he said, “If you could just follow me, I have one more lock to be gotten though with your help.”

John started to object, but the taller man already had a firm grip on his arm and was forcefully steering him towards down the entry hall. Bemused, John decided to just go along for the ride.

They ended up in a large wood paneled office full of expensive looking leather bound books. Sherlock continued to drag him until they were behind the massive oak desk. He pointed to the center drawer and whispered, “There, I need you to open that.”

John looked at him, eyebrows raised, “Why?”

“Because I don't have the key, obviously. And I require an item from that drawer.”

“But why don't you have the key?” John asked. Then with dawning comprehension and mounting horror he added, “Oh God, why didn't you know the code for the keypad? Why was the security chain engaged? This isn't your house at all, is it?”

“Of course you would pick the most inconvenience time to stop being an idiot.” When John just glared at him Sherlock went on, “Okay, strictly speaking, no this is not my house.” and here he turned a disarmingly sincere look upon John, “But I assure you that I would not have involved you in house breaking if the matter was not of vital importance to both the nation's and my own well being.”

“So you tricked me into breaking into someone's house and destroying their property and now you would like me to add burglary as well because you say it is important.”

“To be fair, I didn't expect the property damage, that was entirely a bonus. And any court could already try you for burglary, probably even aggravated burglary given that rather intimidating knife you dispatched the alarm with, with a fairly high chance of getting a conviction.”

John narrowed his eyes fixing Sherlock with a hard glare. His voice was a deadly sort of calm when he asked, “Have you been mental long? Do you think they will take that into account when they sentence me?”

“They might, but they also might try to make a further case against you for exploiting the mentally disordered if I were mental and if we were going to be caught.”

“What do you mean if? Of course we are going to be caught, I maybe am idiot but I know that no one drops thousands of pounds on a top of the line security system without also springing for at least a few exterior cameras.” 

Sherlock beamed at him. “Surprisingly astute. There are indeed several cameras covering the exterior of the house. Alas, some forward thinking vandal managed to spray paint over the lens of each one of them hours ago, before he started calling locksmiths. We can still get away from here free and clear if you will just pick this one last lock and retrieve the envelope inside.”

“You seem to forget that I could just leave now without finishing your dirty work. That even has the added bonus of being slightly more legal.”

“Legality.” the whole notion was dismissed with a dramatic hand wave.

“Yeah, well it is still important to me. Good luck and all.” John said, turning to leave.

He managed only a couple of steps before Sherlock seized his sleeve once again and hissed, “You'll not get far. If you leave I will make enough noise to rouse the household.”

“You wouldn't, they would just catch you as well.”

“Oh John, you have no idea how little I have to lose at this point.”

John hesitated. The threat didn't move him, he had after all broken into this house in a fit of anger and he was willing to pay the price, but there truly was desperation now seeping around the edges of the man's arrogant facade.

As if sensing weakness, Sherlock stepped in close to him bringing their bodies almost flush. There was no telling in the night's darkness what color the man's pale eyes were but the entreaty in them felt real. “Please John.” he said, low and pleading. John could almost feel that deep, velvety rumble in his own chest they were so close. Between that, the feeling of warm breath ghosting across his skin, the adrenaline flooding his system, and the culmination of a very dry spell since he had been invalided back, John felt that he could not be held responsible for his actions as he leaned that little bit forward and up, kissing those impossibly shaped lips.

On a ranked list of the most stupid things John Watson had done in his life, kissing a complete and deceitful stranger during an accidental burglary would not make the top ten, more's the pity. The kiss itself though would easily top his list of best kisses ever, especially when after a startled second the stranger in question seemed to gather his wits and began to kiss back.

It was intense and maybe a bit sloppy. When Sherlock parted his lips looking for a better angle John took the opportunity to fully bring his tongue into play, drawing a long low moan from him. John pulled away slightly, bringing one hand from where it had come to rest on the man's hip and up to his lips in a completely ineffective shushing motion. The look of mingled reproach and lust the gesture was given struck John as incredibly funny sending him into a poorly contained fit of giggles. The giggle was cut off with a gasp when Sherlock seized his hand and slipped the shushing finger into his mouth, then it was John's turn to moan too loudly in the quiet house. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered reverently. Sherlock looked pleased at the reaction and ran his tongue firmly along the pad of John's finger eliciting another moan.

The part of John's mind that was still capable of rational thought told him loudly that for a number of reasons he had to put a stop to this. When the man drew John's finger from his mouth with an audible, wet pop he was able to gather his wits enough to agree. He planted a swift kiss on Sherlock's lips, letting out a softly exclaimed, “Amazing!” and turned back towards the desk.

“Well, if I had know that was going to work I could have saved myself the effort of provoking you to anger.” Sherlock said, sounding smug.

That caused John to look up sharply from where he had just crouch down behind the desk. “What?! So that before outside was all an act?”

“Of course it was. Do you really think I would belittle a wounded veteran unless I had something to gain from it?”

John shook his head turning back to the lock, removing his lock picking set from its pocket. All he said was, “Git.” It came out more fond than annoyed.

He looked back up when Sherlock continued, now a bit hesitant, “But I assure you that only that was an act. I admit I did not expect you to be so um... dexterous. And that, er thing that you, well that you did- that you did just then. That was, um... good.” 

John gave the man an assessing look. He could be lying, still manipulating John into breaking the law but if so, why? John had already moved to complete the job. Simple silence would have accomplished his goal there. Besides, no matter how good an actor the man clearly was, John doubted he could fake the blush visible on those impossible cheekbones even in the low lighting or the other physiological response that had only moments ago been press firmly against his stomach.

'Ah well,' John thought to himself, 'In for a penny, in for a pound.' Sherlock had seemed honest in his belief that whatever was in the drawer was important and really, John had done dumber things for a lot less than that kiss. He had a feeling that there was not much he wouldn't do to experience a kiss like that again. God, he was in trouble.

The lock on the drawer yielded easily, requiring only two picks and the pry bar. As he slid it open Sherlock leaned down next to his ear and whispered into his ear, “Now if you'll just look for a manilla envelope, it will have '1984' written on the top corner. Yes, that is the one. Grab it and we'll get out of here.”

John picked up the envelope without question and followed Sherlock out of the study. As silently as a wraith Sherlock sneaked back down the hall towards the still open front door. John was considerably less silent as he tried to focus on not tripping over his own feet rather than on imagining how the bum in front of him would look were it not obscured by that bloody huge coat. The struggle was taking up enough of his mind that he actually ran into Sherlock when he froze in the middle of the hall. His whispered, “Hey” of protest was cut short when he heard the voices coming from upstairs too.

“-that I heard something.” a man's voice said.

It was answered by another man, this one managing to sound polished and urbane even in the small hours of the morning, “It was probably just one of the microphones picking up BBC Four again. You know that is all it is.”

The deeper voice replied, “Fine, you are probably right, just let me check and we can go back to bed.”

The conversation was definitely moving closer, and John tugged on Sherlock's arm, trying to guide him into the cupboard beneath the staircase but Sherlock pulled back, “Think! It is not like they are going to fail to notice the open door. We are going need to run.”

John inhaled, bracing himself but rather than the “Now,” or “Go” he was expecting Sherlock immediately grasped his hand and pulled him forward and almost off balance. He found his feet and ran hard trying to keep pace with the longer limped man in front of him. 

As they passed the foot of the staircase he glimpsed a silver-haired man, mouth hanging open in shock. Behind him was another figure but all John caught was an impression of a green robe before Sherlock was towing him out the door. They jumped the steps down to the short path to the street. Sherlock had helpfully left the gate out to the street open and John blessed his lucky stars that he had gotten a parking spot directly across the narrow street and that Mrs Hudson had never had the name of the business painted on the van. He had to wrench his hand from Sherlock's to pull the keys out of his pocket. He barked at the other man, “Quick! Jump in through the back and pull the damn doors closed behind you.”

For a wonder Sherlock broke off toward the rear of the van as told. John hit the side of the van still at a run and scrabbled for the door handle, almost dropping the envelope in the process. After a second he got the door open threw the envelope on the passenger seat and jumped in. He jammed the key into the ignition and glanced in the rear view mirror. As soon as Sherlock had both of the back doors shut he threw the van into reverse, causing Sherlock to sprawl ungracefully over the floor of the van and upending his toolbox. John cranked the wheel hard to the right to avoid hitting the sliver-haired man who had been reaching for the van door, and ended up running the van onto the pavement. It gave him just enough room to pull the wheel all the to the left and drop the clutch into second gear, doing the transmission no favors, but also rocketing them down the side street next to the house and away from the man who was still giving chase. Unfortunately it also slammed a protesting Sherlock into the back doors.

“Sorry,” John said, though he didn't slow down or take his eyes off the twisting road. “Think you can climb up here?”

“Yes, as long as you warn me before you make anymore sudden shifts.” Sherlock retorted. “And do slow down. We don't want to attract any more attention.”

“Oh-right.” John said, taking his foot off the accelerator. 

When they came to the next intersection, John stopped long enough for Sherlock to sit in the passenger’s seat before taking a left. He made sure to take the envelope off the seat before sitting down, holding it carefully in his hands as if it might explode.

The silence stretched between them as John drove carefully five miles an hour under the speed limit. Sherlock had his phone out and seemed to be texting furiously on it. After sending a final text with a particularly grandiose flourish, he tucked the phone away in his pocket and turned to study John intensely.

“Okay, you've got questions.” Sherlock stated. 

Something about the overly reasonable tone or perhaps just how massive of an understatement that was set John to laughing. And once he started he couldn't stop, forcing him to pull the van off to the side of the street or risk crashing it.

For a second Sherlock looked surprised and offended at his reaction which just made John laugh all the more. The next moment Sherlock was laughing with him.

It was surreal and cathartic and wonderful, sitting in a van in the early morning stillness laughing with the beautiful, mad man. In a way it felt more intimate than the earlier snogging.

As the laughter tapered out and John was slowly catching his breath he said, “Okay, that was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“That wasn't just me.” John replied, trying to sound modest.

Sherlock chuckled again, before his face went very serious. “This wasn't just you either.” 

“No, I guess it wasn't.” John said huskily, leaned across the seat and reaching to pull the other man towards him by his coat lapels for another kiss.

That was, of course, when John's work cell went off, ringing shrilly from where it was attached to the dashboard. John turned toward it instinctively before his brain remembered what was important and he tried again to pull Sherlock in for a kiss, the call could bloody go to voice mail. Sherlock pulled away though and gestured towards the phone indicating that John should answer. John shot him a 'Really? You must be joking look.' but Sherlock just pulled away further.

John sighed and answered the phone, striving for normalcy as he said by route, “Sure-Lock 24-hour Locksmith services, how many I help you?”

There was a second of silence, just enough for John's heart to stop and his mind to conclude that the man who had chased him from the house had gotten the van's plate number and this was the police calling to tell him to give himself up, before a woman's voice hesitantly started, “Oh, sorry. I thought that was a recording.” Sherlock, clearly overhearing, snickered and John glared at him. He did not sound like a recording!

Unaware of the byplay the woman continued describing her predicament in far too much detail, as people tended to do. As she prattled on, John and Sherlock held a conversation entirely in head gestures. John tilted his head slightly to one side asking if he should take the job and Sherlock nodded firmly, when John lowered his head and raised his eyebrows to make sure Sherlock nodded again, this time a little sadly. So when the women trailed off with a “Can you help me?” John agreed and got the address in Shoreditch. He also made sure to get her name.

“Great,” He said, “I'll be there in about ten-” he paused as Sherlock waved his hand, then mouthed the number fifteen, “Sorry, I mean fifteen minutes, yeah?” The woman agreed and he rang off.

“So,” John started, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“I am sorry John, but it is vitally important that I get this back to my flat in the next half hour, otherwise all our efforts tonight will be undone.”

“Right.”

“So, if you could see your way to dropping me off at Montague Street.”

“Of course,” John replied shortly. He had known that tonight's adventure would have to end and that he would have to go back to the real world where he was just an underemployed, crippled locksmith that nothing ever happened to. He just found he wasn't ready to let go of the excitement yet, wasn't ready to part from the man now sitting beside him.

It was a short drive to Montague Street. As John pulled up where Sherlock indicated the silence became awkward and expectant. Finally John broke it “Look Sherlock,” then paused, unsure how to finish. 'It has been fun, let's break and enter again sometime?' No. 'You are a gorgeous and brilliant man, if you ever feel like taking pity on a broken army doctor, I'd love to see you again?' No.

Luckily Sherlock picked up the thread of the conversation, holding out his hand to shake John's, “Well, it was a pleasure working with you John.” When John took his hand to shake it, he was pulled in for a thorough kiss. His toes might have actually curled a bit in his heavy work boots. Then, with a wicked grin Sherlock was hopping out of the van into the freezing January morning. 

John sat there dazed for a second before he rolled down his window, knowing he was going to call out something unbelievably corny and trite like 'Call me.' or 'When can I see you again?' but Sherlock spoke first from where he was crouched down, seemingly examining the rear driver's side wheel. “Don't worry, it doesn't look like you damaged anything when you ran over the cane you left propped against the van before you stormed up to the house. Told you the limp was psychosomatic.” and the wicked grin was back. John could only stare, as Sherlock winked at him and turn to walk into the block of flats with a dramatic flare of his coat.

He was a bit late getting out to help the woman in Shoreditch.

 

A week passed, then two before John gave up on hearing again from Sherlock Holmes. They were quiet weeks, no police came to question him about a break-in on Regent's Park and Mrs Hudson didn't say anything about the hour he spent out of the shop during his shift. Of course he didn't file any paperwork on the 'job' he had done while out.

He looked the name 'Sherlock Holmes' up on the internet and found the man's website. He read about being a consulting detective and what the man claimed he could deduce. He even read about two hundred and forty-seven different types of tobacco ash, though he didn't retain very much of the information. There was a phone number on the website, but John could not gather the courage to call.

He tried to settle back into his routine, a handful of calls a night, reading, and picking through the back room but it wasn't the same. His body now recalled the thrill of action and it did not want to go back to being sedate. Slowly the limp that seemed to have disappeared that night began to come back.

So when he came in to start his shift almost a month after the incident he was not expecting to see Sherlock standing there at the front counter chatting away to Mrs Hudson like an old friend. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh John, dear,” Mrs Hudson called to him, “This is Sherlock, he is going to be renting the flat above the shop.”

“Is that so?” John asked carefully.

It was Sherlock who answered, “Yes, unfortunately I recently made a rather powerful man mad. As a consequence, I had to leave my last flat unexpectedly. I was lucky to find this place.”

Mrs Hudson added, “Very lucky! I don't know how you knew I had it to let! I haven't even bothered advertising it in years. Never did have much luck renting it out no matter how low I dropped the price, people can be so squeamish about places where there has been a murder.”

“Yes, thank you Mrs Hudson. That is quite helpful.” Sherlock turned his gaze back to John, “Of course, even with the greatly reduced rent, it is a bit much for just one person. I might need a flatmate.”

“Oh dear, I don't know-” Mrs Hudson started but John cut her off.

“Really? Because you know, I am not very happy with my current bedsit and it would be convenient to be so close to work.” John offered without thought. A second later his brain caught up with his mouth and demanded to know what the hell it was doing. He hardly knew this man, and what he did know had involved a major crime and a chase. John overruled it, he knew in his heart that he needed this man in his life, needed his chaos and excitement to be able to call what he did living at all. 

“John,” Mrs Hudson tried again but Sherlock was already saying over her, “I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“But it is a one bedroom flat.” Mrs Hudson finally managed to get out.

John just smiled at her, “I think we'll only be needing the one bedroom, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh?” she asked, then the penny dropped and she beamed at John. “OH! That is great John, just great. Wait until I tell Mrs Turner! She's got married ones you know.”

John, who heard a lot about Mrs Turner every night he took the shop over from Mrs Hudson, just nodded.

Mrs Hudson looked from him to Sherlock and back before she said, “Well, I guess I'll just leave you two here to, er, talk about the rent and such and I'll bring the lease papers with me in the morning. Sherlock, you are more than welcome to stay the night in the flat if you'd like. The key is around here somewhere.” She looked a bit helplessly at the untold thousands of keys, blank and otherwise, that lined the front room's walls.

Working hard to contain a laugh John assured her that they could work it out and ushered her out the door while she kept talking about how nice it would be to have a tenant again and how really it had not been that bad a murder, most of the bloodstains had come right out. 

When she was gone John rounded on the detective, leveling an accusatory finger at him. “Almost a month! You drop off the face of the planet for almost a month, then waltz in here and just expect me to move in with you?!”

“Well, it seems to have worked.” John glared at him so he went on, “I am sorry, John. That envelope turned out to cause rather more trouble than I had planned on and I didn't want to lead it back to your door until I had it under control.”

Sidetracked, John asked the question he had been dying to for more than three weeks, “What was in the envelope?”

Sherlock may have winced a bit, John wasn't sure, but his answer was evasive, “It was a picture.”

“A picture of what exactly?”

“A compromising picture of a high ranking member of the government.”

“Compromised how? And how did you know about the picture? Oh my god, were you in it too?” John was starting to draw a conclusion and he wasn't sure he liked it.

“Yes, I was in the picture, but not in the way you are thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter!” Sherlock heaved a sigh and took his phone out of his pocket. “If you must know, it was a picture of my brother and I from when we were children.” He held the phone out to John, it was displaying what looked like a studio portrait of a young boy with a familiar mop of curls dressed adorably as a pirate, eye patch and all. Next to him was a young man with huge glasses, his bright ginger hair fluffed out until it looked like someone had attached an orange Tribble to his head. To make it worst, the young man seemed to have grown out the back of his hair to shoulder length, upgrading the feathered not quite Afro to a mullet. John could not help the giggle that escaped him.

“Indeed.” agreed Sherlock. “My brother Mycroft was threatening to use his influence to make sure that any future news coverage of my successes as a consulting detective also ran this photo for 'color' unless I agreed to do a series of jobs for him. I refused, stole the picture back, and put in place a program that will make sure this picture, with me cropped out of course, is the first result that will come up whenever anyone Googles the name 'Mycroft' if I don't stop it from executing every month. Thus, I restored the balance between us.”

“Wow, that is just...” John shook his head. “But why did you need me? Surely you could have gotten the picture yourself some easily way.”

“Well, I might have been able to talk my way into the house and then just pried open the drawer but both Mycroft and I have promised not to steal, cheap, or lie to one another.”

“How civil!” John said sarcastically. “Why didn't you just extend the promise to blackmail and be done with it?”

“Oh, we didn't make the promise to each other. It was a promise to our mother. I was not about to run to her to tell on him like a child!”

“Of course that would be the one way in which you choose not to be childish.”

“Hey!”

“If the shoe fits!” John exclaimed right back, “After all you did hire me to break into your brother's house and do thousands of pounds worth of damage so you wouldn't have to ask your mommy for help.”

“Fair point.”

“And I don't understand how this got you kicked out of your flat or put me in any danger to where you couldn't call me for a month.”

“As it happens, Mycroft is in control of my trust fund. Traditionally that has meant he paid my rent and whatever it required above that in the way of repairs and bribes to keep me housed. He stopped paying those bribes and my last landlord turned out to be less forgiving of small fires without them.”

“You started a fire?”

“A small one.”

“And that didn't make your list of things a potential flatmate should know.”

“I wanted you to say yes.” Sherlock answered simply. He added, “And even with my new blackmail on Mycroft, I still had to make sure that he wouldn't go after you just to spite me. To protect you I had to make it seem like you didn't matter to me.”

“And now? If we are going to be living together isn't he going to figure out that I might be something to you?”

“Actually, it occurred to me that if he does do anything like that, I could have a word about it with the man who chased us into the street. He is a work acquaintance of mine and it turns out that Mycroft is very keen to keep their liaison secret, especially from Mummy.”

“So it is all wrapped up, neat and tidy.” John stated. 

“Yup,” Sherlock said, popping his beautiful lips around the 'p' sound.

“Except of course that you left me in the dark for weeks, not knowing if I was going to be arrested, not knowing if you ever wanted to see me again...”

“I guess, there is that. I did say I was sorry.”

“Yeah, maybe.” John's face slowly stretched into a Cheshire Cat grin, “But I think you are going to have to work a bit harder than that to get back in my good graces.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock asked with a grin of his own. “What, pray tell, might that entail?”

“Oh, I am sure I can think of some things.”

“Are you hungry? I can start by bringing you dinner. End of the street, there is a good Chinese stays open 'till two.”

John answered, “Starving.”

The End


End file.
